Even though I no longer sound the way I once did,
I carry the ambience of my mother’s tongue when I speak.
I no longer feel the tingle of sand beneath my bare feet,
Nor see the million stars above when night calls me to sleep.

I yearn to wake to the call of the mosque at dawn,
Or hear the crow of the hen as morning has begun.
I still recall neighbors’ quarrels stretching on,
The heat of the sun, the rain beating on the rooftop long.

Even though friends have drifted and grown apart,
I feel the weight of absence heavy on my heart.
Here, neighbors pass in silence, polite but thin,
Like this dry winter chills that never let warmth in.

I want to stretch to pick a mango from the tree,
To taste the fruits that nature gave freely.
But here all is measured, packaged, and priced,
The sweetness is lost, replaced, and diced.

Absence has stretched me thin across the years,
Yet drums still echo, dissolving my fears.
I mimic their rhythm, I breathe in the beat,
Holding the memories I refuse to let flee.

Maybe love survives absence, maybe it ends,
Maybe distance is just where memory bends.
Clutching childhood memories where freedom ran free,
The woman emerges, shaped by what used to be.

Don’t forget me.
I may return, though time did not wait,
My memories endure, steady, innate.
I hope we hold both the old and the new,
And make them strong enough to carry us through.

Francess

How did we get here? Tell me if you knew,
That blissful day when skies were endless blue,
When tulips glowed as sunlight filtered through,
Did doubt exist, or was it never true?

When love awakened us and spilled its flame,
A nightingale sang soft beneath the moon,
Was something absent, quietly unnamed,
A silence hiding what we’d learn too soon?

Why didn’t you say this road would have an end?
I thought our love could rise above the storm.
When did the clouds arrive? What did you bend,
What thread was pulled to change our living form?

I don’t want here, where breaking takes its place.
Take me back where lilies still remember grace.

Francess

Life moves fast.
We all need a handle to grab.
Mistakes done way back
Are catching up really fast.

Looking back is hard
Because that’s a life we never planned.
Try to follow the crowd
The cash, and our pride.

Lack of privilege
Got us fighting for wealth,
Selling dope, selling hope
We survived by any means.

Gone are the days when we all used to play like kids.
Sometimes we fight, and the next day we are still tight.
But as years passed,
We all grew up fast.

Caught with the same ambition,
Making money, living high.
And as the flame rises,
Only the strong survived.

It’s hard to comprehend how it really feels
To be tough in the street,
While inside, our soul weeps.

Our families begging, “Please,”
We are getting old, we need to quit.
And every day we give them promises
We really can’t keep.

Because every time we flip the script,
We never get a second deal.

Mama’s working two jobs,
But even that doesn’t pay the bills.
Because of past records,
Employers won’t employ us.

So we stick to the street,
And resign to the same deal,
Till we see another mother’s eyes bleeding,
Beside the graveside, needing
Her child to be home,
Because a trigger with a finger took her whole world away.

To those we have lost, may your life guide ours.

Francess

I am awake again, counting my own heartbeat
The crib cries again, and I feel incomplete
I do not know how to do this, no one showed me
No one taught me how to be her world entirely

The laundry piles high, the dishes never end
Bills stack up, reminders in bold red.
I stare at my baby, tiny hands gripping my finger
This tiny finger, curled up in my palm, I linger

I feel the weight of every wrong choice, every love lost
The person who promised support is gone, at a cost
Friends I counted on have faded to background noise
I have learned to survive on too little sleep, too much fuss.

Every nap is a small victory, every feed a win
Every diaper, every smile, a breath within
Tired eyes searching, I whisper, “Am I enough?”
I keep moving forward, even when the world is rough

Hands shake, heart dull, yet I stand
The world is heavy, but I hold her hand
Learning, stumbling, surviving, this is our truth
This is life, little one, and this is our proof

Better days are coming, I promise, for sure.
Through tears, through fear, through every small cheer
A little messy right now, but better days will soon come.

Francess

The darker the girl, the harder the fight
They see our shade in the classroom light
Teachers tipping toes around our names
Like our existence is something to frame

They call our hair a “statement”
Damn right, it is ours to wear
They say it is “unprofessional”
Like our hair is something to fear.

They have never been taught
The beauty of these coils
Just how to judge them
Like texture is turmoil

They hand us magazines
With lighter skin on the spread
As if beauty is numbers
And darker girls do not tread

I have heard older folks say
“Not too much sun, you will get too dark”
As if melanin is danger
As if lighter was the mark

I have felt the pull of mirrors
That never reflected pride
And learned quickly how to carry
Myself with edge and stride

The darker the girl, the harder the fight
In offices where every glance measures them
Where skin tone writes unwritten rules
And promotions slip from hands like sand

They call it a mosaic
But they want you to conform
Fit their frame, mute your song
Walk their line, just play along

We have learned to speak louder
Than the assumptions in their minds
To wear our truth like armor
In every place they draw lines

We learned early that respect
Is something you forge
Not something you borrow
From systems built to ignore

I have seen headlines whisper names
Black women lost in streets
Voices swallowed in police logs
Frames missing from their beats

Not only Black boys get taken by police
Black women too, caught in the same crease
Their stories buried while others get loud
We speak their names now, strong and proud

We rise without permission
We claim space without shame
We wear our melanin like armor
Our hair as crown and culture
This body, this story, this muse
That the darker the girl is the brighter her light.

Francess

Underneath the acacia tree
I learned the discipline of wanting.
Shade was never free,
it arrived negotiated with heat.
Roots split the ground open
without apology.

That felt instructive.

I learned to listen upward.
Planes passed like unfinished sentences,
metal syllables of elsewhere.
I did not need to see them
to believe.

Desire arrived early.
It wore the language of escape.
Of movement mistaken for progress.
Of distance marketed as cure.

I rehearsed departure carefully.
A future packed light enough to carry
but heavy with expectation.
Happiness imagined as a receipt.
Wealth as proof of worth.

At home, money taught us grammar.
Silence when figures entered the room.
Love translated into restraint.
Generosity measured by absence.

I learned that ambition
is only celebrated
until it threatens to leave.
That migration is less dream
than inheritance.

I wanted to become evidence.
That departure redeems.
That struggle ends.
That the body can outrun memory.

Abroad, I performed arrival well.
My voice adjusted itself.
My name learned new postures.
I acquired currency,
language,
permission.

Still, happiness arrived incomplete.
It came unannounced.
Unimpressed by geography.
Unwilling to be owned.

I began to recognize it
in ordinary forms.
In laughter without witnesses.
In rest that did not ask to be earned.
In love that survived scarcity.

I understood then
what the acacia had been practicing
all along.

Growth does not require escape.
Roots do not apologize for staying.

What I pursued across borders
was not location
but recognition.

And it had been waiting,
quiet, intact,
before ambition learned to speak.

Right underneath the acacia tree.

Francess

She was talented.
That is the first truth.
Her hands bent rhythm from nothing,
her voice made grief pliable,
her mind moved faster
than anyone could measure.

They called it drinking
before they called it sorrow.
Called it habit
before they called it harm.
Called it choice
because choice is easier
than seeing who taught her
how to survive.

The bottle arrived quietly.
First as courage, then as control,
then as quiet company
for the noise inside.

At home, silence became language.
In our culture,
suffering is private,
especially for women.
Strength is praised
until it becomes a cage.

Help came late.
Therapy was distant.
Rehab lived far from streets
that knew her name.
Faith arrived faster
than funding,
and friends waited,
watching her performance
until it could not continue.

She was performing until the end.

Psychology calls it self-medication,
trauma response,
reward pathways rewired by repeated loss.
Systems call it statistics.
Families call it sorrow that never sleeps.

Children inherit questions.
Friends inherit guilt.
Parents inherit the ache
of what if we had known differently.

Her brilliance did not vanish.
It became echo.
Talent left unfinished,
love held hostage,
laughter folded into memory.

Addiction did not love her.
It consumed her.

And still, we carry it,
the weight she carried,
the spaces she could not fill,
the air she never got to breathe.

Happiness was not denied,
only trapped
under burdens she was forced to bear.
And maybe, just maybe,
she was always already
more than enough.

You fold your fear, pack it tight,
sky above, blind to your fight.
They whisper of streets where life feels fair,
but no one warns of the danger there.

The path is narrow, the ground is thin,
each step trembles beneath your skin.
The one who leads you doesn’t care,
their eyes are ice, their hands laid bare.

Dreams of air you can finally breathe,
where coins buy more than silent grief.
Salt on your lips, wind slicing your face,
hope becomes weight you cannot place.

Each step a warning, each turn a test,
your heartbeat a plea trapped in your chest.
Voices at home still echo loud,
family, friends, the grind you vowed.

The world doesn’t love, it only swallows,
it devours the brave, it leaves the hollows.
No papers, no route, no guiding hand,
just danger waiting in foreign land.

You wanted better, wealth, escape, health,
but the cost of leaving is more than stealth.
Grief, blood, silence, strife,
the price exacted on your life.

Hear this truth before you go:
the path takes all, it won’t say no.
No dream, no shore, no whispered plea,
no one waits on the other side for thee.

The life you chase isn’t in flight or tide,
it moves with the ones who keep their eyes wide.
Not in danger, not in fear, not in stolen stride
reach out, take your hand, and wipe the fog aside.

Francess

The night should hum, a soft lullaby,
a hand to hold, a voice nearby,
but silence fell while the stars stayed high,
no whispers to soothe, no tears to dry,
just shadows long enough to wonder why.

They call it mother’s love,
but what if that love walked out the door
before the day began,
before you even learned to walk,
before your heart could understand what it was for?

Your hands learn work before your heart does,
your voice learns to hush itself,
to fill the gaps she left,
to fold the quiet into a makeshift shield,
to stitch the empty spaces the night revealed.

Socks folded by fingers still small,
homework done in the shadow the walls recall,
so many questions bouncing off the hall,
no one to steady a fall,
the weighs heavier than it should at all.

You grow fast, way too fast,
counting hours, counting chance,
to be seen, to be held,
to say it will be alright,
and catch you when you fall.

Daddy did his part, siblings gave hands,
love measured in survival, in silent demands,
in the fire you build to warm your own hands
to hold your nights, to make your plans,
and claim your place in shifting sands.

Raised by absence, you learn to speak
raised by silence, you learn to move
raised by the spaces she left,
you learn to take up room,
to claim the life you were meant to lead.

No lullabies taught you how to rest,
no soft hums, no mother’s chest,
so you learned to sing, to soothe, to care,
to carry your own nights, and still dare,
to grow, to live, to rise from an empty air.